Day 2
I saw my therapist today. What was supposed to be a half an hour summary of my life turned into a two hour discussion about moving country, learning English, losing a father and a sister, a psychotic and cold mother, a stepfather, Amy and him. The talking numbed me, I spoke as if I were reading a script, describing it all in stone monotone, welling up then crashing down and glaring anywhere around the shabby typical NHS room but at her. She was my anaesthetic, afterwards I was drained, every emotion had been drawn out until all that was left resembled bones and flesh.
Mum is flipping out about my incompetency the last week. She tells me I have only myself to blame, I am my own worst enemy, I should be ashamed and its all my own fault. She's so right for once that is hurts all over. I wanted it all at once so much that I wound up with nothing at all. My head flits around, grabbing a memory from here, another from there, each weaving together into the shameful mess that has become our conclusion.
I think and rethink. When I gave up on being a dignified adult and began sobbing in Bournemouth you wouldn't touch me. You sat and listened to the crying. I understand, I wouldn't touch me, the disgusting, malicious me, either. But I thought... I can't think. I must learn not to think. Maybe you were really telling the truth - I am nothing to you. When I walked away full of hurt and anger at myself why didn't you stop me? You didn't try to stop me. I waited, prayed for a call, a plead, a last crumb of hope for us, coming from the bench but I heard silence. The bench was swallowed up in darkness and nothing came. It seemed so easy for you to open your palm and let me disappear.
Your phantom is next to me. Always. I talk to him, I must be crazy. I ate a meal for the first time in almost three days. It makes me sick. I felt nothing I felt nothing I felt nothing I felt nothing I felt nothing. It makes me sick. The flashbacks of 2am on your birthday play in my memory, what you did, what I did what we both did. It makes me sick. Ofcourse, your birthday, who doesn't want to fuck? No wonder. I was there and you were about to enter a relationship - your perfect goodbye. It meant nothing, it had to. I want to fast forward time, where will this chaos lead... Take back time - I'm sorry, forgive me, don't to this... Erase all knowledge of you so this constant scratching and shouting stops. stop stop stop stop stop stop. Your room is so cold this time of year and I bet you have at least one window open. Reid is upstairs playing games and listening to music. Sue sings jazzy love songs in the kitchen, cooking meat which she won't eat. Your dad is on the sofa, watching the television with subtitles and thinking about the next gig at Mr Kypps. I see it all. How did I ever think I was part of the puzzle? The puzzle fits perfectly with my absence, she can replace me beautifully and no one would ever know that something changed, something was missing.
I have lost direction again. Again, I see no clear purpose ahead, university, family, a career - already its fraying at the sides and edging closer to the flame. My friends are amazing and so right. "It will take you years to fall out of love." "The memories won't go for a long time." "You must feel degraded and used." I do. But I don't want years. I don't want new memories. I want him. How selfish I must be... "There is an obvious pattern," the therapist said, "everyone left your mother, she has ended up completely alone. Everyone now keeps leaving you." I am sick to my head of thinking and feeling. Physical pain is nothing when your conscience burns to ashes and your reason is in meltdown. How long had you planned to do this? How long did you know that you "felt nothing?"
My reflection shows me the pathetic picture of a numb, hollow mess. What goes around comes around - and my payback turned up far sooner than I wanted. I feel like an empty shell who got what she deserved. I would give anything to bring back the way you looked at me, how precisely we fit eachothers arms.
Still, I love you.
Still, goodnight.
I saw my therapist today. What was supposed to be a half an hour summary of my life turned into a two hour discussion about moving country, learning English, losing a father and a sister, a psychotic and cold mother, a stepfather, Amy and him. The talking numbed me, I spoke as if I were reading a script, describing it all in stone monotone, welling up then crashing down and glaring anywhere around the shabby typical NHS room but at her. She was my anaesthetic, afterwards I was drained, every emotion had been drawn out until all that was left resembled bones and flesh.
Mum is flipping out about my incompetency the last week. She tells me I have only myself to blame, I am my own worst enemy, I should be ashamed and its all my own fault. She's so right for once that is hurts all over. I wanted it all at once so much that I wound up with nothing at all. My head flits around, grabbing a memory from here, another from there, each weaving together into the shameful mess that has become our conclusion.
I think and rethink. When I gave up on being a dignified adult and began sobbing in Bournemouth you wouldn't touch me. You sat and listened to the crying. I understand, I wouldn't touch me, the disgusting, malicious me, either. But I thought... I can't think. I must learn not to think. Maybe you were really telling the truth - I am nothing to you. When I walked away full of hurt and anger at myself why didn't you stop me? You didn't try to stop me. I waited, prayed for a call, a plead, a last crumb of hope for us, coming from the bench but I heard silence. The bench was swallowed up in darkness and nothing came. It seemed so easy for you to open your palm and let me disappear.
Your phantom is next to me. Always. I talk to him, I must be crazy. I ate a meal for the first time in almost three days. It makes me sick. I felt nothing I felt nothing I felt nothing I felt nothing I felt nothing. It makes me sick. The flashbacks of 2am on your birthday play in my memory, what you did, what I did what we both did. It makes me sick. Ofcourse, your birthday, who doesn't want to fuck? No wonder. I was there and you were about to enter a relationship - your perfect goodbye. It meant nothing, it had to. I want to fast forward time, where will this chaos lead... Take back time - I'm sorry, forgive me, don't to this... Erase all knowledge of you so this constant scratching and shouting stops. stop stop stop stop stop stop. Your room is so cold this time of year and I bet you have at least one window open. Reid is upstairs playing games and listening to music. Sue sings jazzy love songs in the kitchen, cooking meat which she won't eat. Your dad is on the sofa, watching the television with subtitles and thinking about the next gig at Mr Kypps. I see it all. How did I ever think I was part of the puzzle? The puzzle fits perfectly with my absence, she can replace me beautifully and no one would ever know that something changed, something was missing.
I have lost direction again. Again, I see no clear purpose ahead, university, family, a career - already its fraying at the sides and edging closer to the flame. My friends are amazing and so right. "It will take you years to fall out of love." "The memories won't go for a long time." "You must feel degraded and used." I do. But I don't want years. I don't want new memories. I want him. How selfish I must be... "There is an obvious pattern," the therapist said, "everyone left your mother, she has ended up completely alone. Everyone now keeps leaving you." I am sick to my head of thinking and feeling. Physical pain is nothing when your conscience burns to ashes and your reason is in meltdown. How long had you planned to do this? How long did you know that you "felt nothing?"
My reflection shows me the pathetic picture of a numb, hollow mess. What goes around comes around - and my payback turned up far sooner than I wanted. I feel like an empty shell who got what she deserved. I would give anything to bring back the way you looked at me, how precisely we fit eachothers arms.
Still, I love you.
Still, goodnight.
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